


Mind's Eye

by TheMartian



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Avocados at Law, Awkwardness, Gen, Sexual Tension, avoc - Freeform, basically no plot shamless, sexual tension I hope?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 10:59:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMartian/pseuds/TheMartian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt and Foggy spend some quality time together in Matt's apartment after a botched night out, and Matt "sees" Foggy for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mind's Eye

Matt likes the smell of the city after the rain. Like salt and sulfur. The pattered symphonies of water droplets stream off fire escapes, flicked from taxi tires. But they're overpowered by the sound of Foggy's hard breaths studded with laughter, sharp and clear on his right-hand side. He's got Matt by the arm, practically dragging him. Matt struggles to keep pace, water running in around his thin rubber soles. Together they step-slide down the stretch of slick concrete.

“Just one more block.”

“It's not like they're gonna run out of alcohol.” Matt can smell the steam wafting in thick clouds from the subway grates. Bile rises high in his throat, not sure he can take another night pounding shots again.

Foggy cranes his neck, studying the street signs. “You underestimate how much lawyers can drink.” He pushes back the crisp cuff of his shirt. Checks his watch. Matt counts out the frantic, measured ticks. They step from the curb and Matt feels the ghost of a tremor, the approaching vibration of wheels pressing into the pavement. He yanks back on Foggy's arm and the two stumble backwards as a mess of mottled paint and metal flies past. Not phased, Foggy pushes them both across the street.

“James Street. We're close.”

The wind leaks in around Matt's collar. He suffers in silence, his free hand pinned under Foggy's arm. He doesn't much like being led. But tonight he's grateful for Foggy being pressed against him, the steady permanence of his friend at his side.

“1247 James Street. That was definitely the address.” They're stopped outside a squat building, outlined by the honey-pale light of a laundromat. The plaster cracks at the corners. Wet laundry smacks in the machines, heat dissipating from the dryers and seeping through the outside door. Matt can hear neon buzzing in the window. The liquid outline of cursive script suggests something profane.

Foggy checks a crumpled receipt from his pocket with a hastily scrawled address. “The guys at Landman said they were buying. Intern tradition.”

“I think this is the tradition.”

“What do you mean?”

“Foggy, they stood us up.”

Foggy exhales. His ego is shattered but he's fighting hard not to show it. He leans back, his broad shoulders resting against the brick. “Pricks.”

“I got a few beers back at my place,” Matt suggests. Foggy just sighs. He pushes himself off the wall back to Matt's side. Matt flicks his slender wrist, extending his cane to his feet. Foggy trails behind, strings cut.

The city is a smear of colors blotted by rain. Neon greens bleed out over the speckled asphalt. Foggy tries his best to sound confident. “You were right about turning them down. After we pass the bar we'll get our own practice. 'Nelson and Murdock, attorneys at law.'”

“How come your name comes first?”

“Murdock and Nelson? Doesn't sound as good.”

“I think you just like the sound of your own name.”

“Fine. You score higher than me on the bar, your name is first on the door. Deal?”

Matt considers. He palms his cane in his left hand, extending his right. “Deal.”

 

 

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

Matt runs a fingernail over the jagged tips of his keys. Foggy waits just behind him, studying the shoddy paint job. Light flickers from dim corners, the damp-sweet smell of mildew creeping in. Water stains make brown spots you could press in with a thumb, like a rotten apple.

Matt stows his cane at the door. His body breathes at home, each step measured, every movement precise. Foggy takes a timid step in, unable to see in the dark. The only light filters in through the raindrops speckled fat as grapes on the windowpanes.

Foggy bumps the couch with his knees, feeling his way around to sit. Matt shrugs off his jacket and extends a beer to Foggy, who gives a grateful nod. He can hear the couple in an apartment two floors down bickering, hoping the spat doesn't escalate. 

“You should get a dog.”

“Why buy a dog when I get you for free?” Matt tips back his beer.

“Don't take advantage of me, Murdock.”

“Woof.”

“Besides, girls love dogs. They're like babies without the crying.”

“Maybe _you_ should get a dog then.”

“Maybe I will. Not everyone can be Casanova, Matt. Us mere mortals need some help.”

“Come on, I don't date that many women.” 

“I never said you  _date_ them,” says Foggy. He wrestles off his loafers and props up his sock feet. “All those hot girls and you can't even appreciate it.” 

“I have other ways of knowing what people look like. The voice alone tells you a lot. You just build a mental picture with the information you have.” The two settle back into the couch further. Matt's head swims in the liquid fog of alcohol. The beer churns warm in his stomach.

“Foggy?”

“Hm?”

“What do you look like?”

“Tall. Muscular. Ruggedly handsome.”

“Foggy.”

He thinks for a moment. His thick fingers sweat with the condensation of the bottle. “Green eyes, blond hair, uh—I mean, what else do people say? Not much to write home about.”

Matt offers up an open palm. He can feel the heat off Foggy's burning cheeks, his heart thrumming in his throat. “May I?”

“I uh—I mean, I guess. Go ahead.” Foggy shifts forward in his seat, leaning into Matt's outstretched hand. His fingertips hit first, lightly brushing the high peak of Foggy's nose. Matt thumbs across flushed cheeks and the sandpaper stubble of whiskers.

“Your hair.”

“What?”

“It's long.”

His hands make full contact, the creased lines and the raised pearls of calluses exploring the contours of the chin. Foggy consciously wills himself to relax. His fingers inch their way up, tracing the ridge of the brow, the soft pocket of the eyes. Satisfied, Matt lowers his hands and retakes his grip on his beer, offering nothing but an exhalation of approval. “Hm.”

Foggy grins through raised eyebrows. “Was that as good for you as it was for me?”

“You look different than I expected.”

“Different? Like good different?”

“Like good different,” Matt confirms. 

The lull in conversation is taken up by the bleating ambulances outside, the dull patter of footsteps on the concrete, the rattling hum of the refrigerator. Foggy glances at Matt, despite knowing he can't see him. 

“Has anyone ever told you what you look like?”

“Like my dad, apparently.” 

Foggy sets down an empty beer bottle on the ground with a hollow thud. Takes a pause before speaking. “I should go. Can't be too hungover for tomorrow.” 

  
“Stay over, if you'd like.” Matt collects the empties, setting them by the sink. 

“It's fine, really.” Foggy rises, slipping back into his shoes.

Matt holds out another bottle fresh from the refrigerator. “I insist.” He gives Matt's extended hand a long, hard look, wondering how much he's going to regret in the morning. Foggy reaches for the bottle and they both sit back, quietly content.

 


End file.
